


I Know This Room, I've Walked This Floor

by Keira_63



Series: The Minor Fall, The Major Lift [8]
Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character in peril, Episode: The Abominable Bride, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Love, Love Confessions, Minor Character Death, POV Molly Hooper, Part of the Minor Fall Major Lift series, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Story titles taken from the song Hallelujah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25208392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keira_63/pseuds/Keira_63
Summary: One last operative from Moriarty’s network threatens to destroy everything.
Relationships: References to past Jim Moriarty/Sebastian Moran, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Series: The Minor Fall, The Major Lift [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/68601
Comments: 6
Kudos: 69





	I Know This Room, I've Walked This Floor

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock is a TV series created by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat and based on the Sherlock Holmes stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own any of it.
> 
> This is the eighth part in a series spanning from pre-series until post series 3. It was inspired by lyrics from the song Hallelujah - the series title and each story title is a line, or part of a line, from the song. This part is set during and after The Abominable Bride.
> 
> This is the last 'main' story. All that is left is an epilogue in Sherlock's POV with reference to all the stories posted so far, and then two codas - one each in Irene Adler and Moriarty's POV.

_Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?_

Molly’s scream cut off abruptly when she heard a knock at her door.

Her eyes widened as she tried to figure out the best way to escape out of her flat. She was on the third floor, so jumping out of the window wasn’t really an option if she actually wanted to be able to walk properly afterwards. There was the fire escape, though …

“Doctor Hooper?” a voice called out, and thoughts of fleeing left Molly’s head as she recognised who it was.

She switched the TV off and hurried over, hands shaking as she fiddled with the lock and opened the front door, “Anthea, thank goodness.”

Anthea looked as calm and collected as always, a stark contrast to Molly’s frazzled panic, “Mr Holmes sent me over to look after you while he and his brother get a handle on the situation.”

“It isn’t him, though, is it?” she asked, “it can’t be. I did the autopsy myself – it was definitely him and he was definitely dead.”

“I cannot say,” Anthea told her carefully, looking for the first time something other than completely sure, “but Mr Holmes and his brother are sure to discover the truth. Now, why don’t you make yourself something to eat and I’ll do a perimeter check.”

Molly prepared a sandwich for herself with trembling hands, and Anthea was back by the time she had settled herself on the settee.

“Everything looks secure at the moment, and Mr Holmes called to say they would be here within the hour.”

“Thank you,” Molly murmured gratefully, “did you want anything while you wait – tea, some food?”

Anthea flashed her the briefest of smiles, “no thank you, Doctor Hooper.”

Molly switched the TV back on to try and distract herself. The first thing that came up was a re-run of _Glee_ and she changed the channel immediately. Normally, she could enjoy the show without remembering watching it with Jim but, after what had just happened, she’d rather watch something else.

Anthea sat down next to her, typing away on her Blackberry. Molly thought about starting a conversation, but she never quite knew what to say to Mycroft’s right-hand woman and, besides, Anthea seemed to prefer to remain silent.

She was startled from the cooking show she was watching by knocking on her door.

Anthea held up a hand, indicating she should stay where she was. The knocking began again, and Molly realised that whoever was on the other side was rapping the door in a distinct pattern.

After the pattern had been repeated once more, Anthea nodded and went over to open the door. Sherlock, John, Mary, Mycroft and Greg all entered, crowding into her sitting room.

Molly stood immediately, “are you all ok? What’s going on?”

“Not Moriarty,” Sherlock told her bluntly.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, “what my brother means is that we have ascertained that James Moriarty is indeed deceased. His suicide was real, as was the body you autopsied, Doctor Hooper. This new development is the work of an associate of his, acting on orders he received before Moriarty’s death.”

“It’s been so long, though,” Molly said, “I thought Sherlock took down the network while he was away.”

Sherlock scowled and Mycroft frowned, “it appears we missed one operative, someone who deliberately remained in the shadows.”

“But you’ve found them now?” she asked hopefully.

“We’ve tracked them to a disused warehouse outside of the city,” Mycroft confirmed, “we will be leaving shortly to apprehend them.”

Worry filled her now, at the thought of her friends chasing after someone who was clearly clever enough to have hidden themself from both Sherlock and Mycroft’s view for years.

“Are you sure you need to go yourselves?” she asked, “isn’t this a job for a group of police, or even special forces?”

“Time is of the essence,” Mycroft insisted, “special forces will be meeting us there.”

Molly didn’t like it. She didn’t like it at all. It wasn’t as bad as when Sherlock had gone off to dismantle Moriarty’s network for two years, because at least this time he wasn’t alone, but she still wasn’t comfortable with them all putting themselves in danger.

She also wanted to know exactly how they had so quickly figured out why Moriarty’s face was all over the TV, so she pulled Sherlock aside while John, Mary, Mycroft and Greg were arguing over the best way to infiltrate the warehouse.

“What happened, Sherlock? I got a strange note from you, and then the news was talking about Magnussen’s death.”

Sherlock’s face went eerily blank, “Magnussen was … well, the ‘Napoleon of blackmail’ seems to be an apt description. I had to stop him, there was no other way.”

Molly’s face paled as she realised what Sherlock was alluding to.

“You killed him.”

He looked pained, almost ill, “I … I could not conceive of any other options.”

Now he sounded almost like a child, hurt and scared and desperately trying to avoid censure.

Sherlock wasn’t the sort to enjoy killing, and he generally tended to avoid violence unless he was emotionally provoked or acting in self-defence. He much preferred to use his massive brain to solve problems, especially if it meant he got to tell everyone else how he figured it out.

“What kind of man was Magnussen?” she asked.

“The worst kind,” Sherlock replied immediately, “I might even say he was more dangerous than Moriarty. Perverse, cruel, manipulative. He was a sadist and a megalomaniac … he turned my stomach more than anyone I’ve ever met, and I have met some truly terrible people.”

He sounded heated, angry … emotional. Sherlock didn’t usually let his emotions get the better of him, so she knew the whole situation must have been a terrible one.

She wasn’t exactly sure what to think. Her general world-view was that killing was abhorrent, but she also wasn’t naïve enough to think that it wasn’t sometimes an unfortunate last-resort. And despite the way Sherlock sometimes came across, she knew he wasn’t a bad person, knew he wouldn’t have killed Magnussen unless he truly couldn’t think of any other options.

She didn’t know what to say to him, though. It wasn’t her place to offer forgiveness for an act that had nothing to do with her, and yet she found she wanted to comfort him.

She reached out tentatively, and laid her hand gently on his arm, “if you want to talk, when all this is over, or you need anything, then just come and see me.”

“Thank you, Molly Hooper.”

Her gaze held his for maybe ten seconds, but so much seemed to pass between them despite the short time.

He was tired. He was hurt. He was drained. He needed to talk, but he couldn’t yet.

She’d be there for him when he was ready.

Sensing it would be best to move away from the topic of Magnussen for the time being, Molly asked Sherlock how he had figured out that Moriarty’s appearance on screens across the country was a pre-recorded plan rather than a return of the man himself.

Sherlock immediately launched into a ten minute explanation of his departure for a mission likely to prove fatal (and she would be having _words_ with Mycroft later about that), the drugs he had taken and the complex hallucination he had experienced in his Mind Palace as a result.

After he was finished, Molly just gaped at him, “you did _what_?

“Weren’t you listening?” he asked, exasperation crossing his face.

“I was definitely listening to you explain that you took drugs to solve an old 19th century case you believed might be the key to why Jim’s face is plastered across every screen in Britain. I was also listening when you said you almost trapped yourself in your mind palace. What I want to know is what the hell you were thinking, putting yourself in danger like that?”

“Solving the Ricoletti case required more drastic methods than usual.”

Molly raised an eyebrow, “you’ve solved more difficult cases without drugs.”

“But not quickly enough,” Sherlock countered, “I needed an answer as soon as possible.”

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Sherlock,” she warned him, “you’ve had two separate occasions of taking drugs and a gunshot wound in a matter of months and your body can only take so much.”

He only made a non-committal humming noise, which she took to mean he disagreed with her but wasn’t about to argue the point.

“You were an excellent doctor in my hallucination,” he noted, after a few moments of stilted silence, “you pretended to be a man and had a job at St Bart’s.”

“I … what?”

“You had a moustache,” Sherlock added.

She saw the twitching corners of his mouth and knew he was trying not to smile. She rolled her eyes, but found herself curious nonetheless about her role in his hallucination.

It wasn’t the time, though. When everything was sorted with the re-emergence of Moriarty’s network, she would have to ask Sherlock for more details.

It had to mean _something_ , though she wasn’t quite sure what.

Mycroft walked over to them, a grim sort of determination on his face, “time to go, brother.”

A small part of Molly wanted to go with them, didn’t want to stay behind waiting for news. However, she knew that in this case she would probably be more of a hindrance than a help, and that was the last thing she wanted.

“Be safe,” she murmured to Sherlock, resisting the urge to hug him and never let go.

He nodded at her once and then pivoted on his heel and began striding towards the door.

“I’ve posted two men outside your door, just in case,” Mycroft told her as everyone began to leave, “they won’t be a bother.”

Molly believed it. Mycroft’s people seemed to specialise in being well-trained, discrete and not at all chatty.

She watched them all go, trying not to think about how things felt just a little bit off.

* * *

Molly took a long, hot shower to try and wash away the stresses of the day.

It worked, in a way, but she knew she wouldn’t feel completely comfortable until everyone was back safely with the news that Moriarty’s network was finally, completely dismantled.

She pulled on some comfy clothes, good for lounging around but suitable enough for when her friends returned.

She had almost finished drying her hair when she heard a slight noise coming from the direction of her living room.

Assuming that it was one of the two security officers coming to check on her, she walked out of her bedroom ready to ask whether either of them needed a drink or snack.

It wasn’t either of her two security officers. It was a tall, muscled man with dirty blonde hair who was pointing a gun at her.

And Molly knew, without even needing it to be confirmed, that Sherlock and the rest of their friends were chasing an empty lead.

The danger wasn’t in an abandoned warehouse. It was right in front of her.

“Doctor Hooper,” the man nodded at her.

At first glance he seemed like a normal man in his late thirties or early forties, not ugly by any means but very ordinary looking.

However, when she looked closer she could see more. A bearing that suggested military training of some sort, a sense of physical strength that she would struggle to fight against. A cold, almost dead look in his eyes that worried her more than anything else.

“Who are you?” she asked.

He gave her a sort of mocking bow, “Sebastian Moran, at your service.”

His words sent a jolt of recognition through her. She’d heard his name before, back when she and Jim had been dating.

She felt a stab of regret. It would be nice to think Moran had snuck past Mycroft’s security officers, but she somehow knew he hadn’t been that kind. If they weren’t dead then they were probably seriously injured.

He smiled, though it wasn’t a nice expression, “you know who I am.”

“You’re the last operative,” she said, “from Jim … Moriarty’s network.”

Moran nodded, “Jim knew more than you think. More than Holmes thought.”

“What do you mean?” Molly asked carefully.

“Jim didn’t forget about you. He knew that with snipers on Watson, Lestrade and the landlady, that Holmes would go to you for help. He counted on it.”

Molly’s face screwed up in confusion, “but Jim … Moriarty, he killed himself …”

It hit her then, what Moran was saying. Suicide had been Jim’s plan all along. She couldn’t fathom his reasoning, though she thought Sherlock might be able to understand it.

“He left instructions then?” she asked.

Moran nodded, “he knew Holmes would destroy his empire. He _wanted_ that, though he never would explain why. But Holmes missed one crucial piece.”

“You,” Molly guessed, “Jim was constantly talking about his friend Seb.”

It had been one of the reasons Molly had broken up with Jim. She’d refuted Sherlock’s allegation that he was gay but later, when she thought about how much Jim spoke about Sebastian Moran, she had realised Sherlock might have been right.

“You … you loved him,” she added softly.

Moran bared his teeth at her in a terrifying grin, “I loved him more than anything. And then he fucking killed himself in his quest to win the stupid game he was playing with Holmes.”

And now Molly knew the real, serious danger that Moran posed to her. This was a man who had lost the thing he cared about most, a man with nothing left to lose. He didn’t care if he lived or died, as long as he destroyed Sherlock’s life.

“Why are you here then?” she asked, “if you want to kill Sherlock then why did you send him on a false lead.”

“You misunderstand,” Moran told her, “I’m not here to kill Sherlock … I’m here to kill you.”

Molly froze, and a cold terror seeped through her bones.

“What better way,” he continued, “to destroy Sherlock Holmes, than to kill the woman he loves in front of him.”

She shook her head, the denial automatic, “Sherlock doesn’t love me.”

Moran let out a short, harsh laugh, “perhaps he doesn’t know it himself, but it’s true nonetheless. Jim saw it, insisted it was true despite Holmes’ casual disregard, and his dalliance with Irene Adler. I imagine you’ve loved him for so long, Doctor Hooper, embarrassing yourself time and time again like a schoolgirl with a crush – doesn’t it make you happy to know he returns your feelings?”

None of this was making her happy. She knew Sherlock considered her a friend, but the idea that he might return her love was not one she had ever considered. And to have her feelings, and Sherlock’s, coldly and mockingly scrutinised by Moran was horrible for her.

Moran shrugged, “well, he’ll be back soon enough, if my calculations are correct, so I’m afraid I’ll have to insist that you stay where you are until he returns.”

Molly looked up at the clock on her wall, watching as the seconds ticked by, bringing them ever closer to a confrontation that could well lead to her death.

\----------

_Think, think, think, Molly_.

She looked towards the door, but that was too obvious, and too far for her to go without Moran managing to catch up to her.

Her taser was in a handbag in her bedroom. Again, too far.

She closed her eyes briefly as she tried to think of a move that wouldn’t be predictable to the man in front of her. Nothing came to mind and her panic began rising even higher.

_I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die._

She opened her eyes to see Moran watching her, head tilted slightly. She didn’t like the way he looked at her – it was bad enough that he had casually announced he planned to murder her in front of Sherlock, but it was somehow even worse that he also seemed to regard her as something pathetic.

She inched backwards, swearing under her breath when she banged into her bookshelf.

A thought struck her, however. She leaned back, trying to look as if she was simply trying to get as far away from Moran as possible, and then let her hands close around the heavy paperweight someone had given her for Christmas years ago.

She let her gaze slide across the room to the kitchen and she saw Moran’s eyes narrow. Good, he thought she was looking at the knife block on her kitchen counter.

She gripped the paperweight in one hand behind her back, and then she shuffled slightly sideways, in the direction of the kitchen.

All she needed was a few seconds, for him to look away for just a moment.

He kept watching her, though, so she inched slightly closer to the kitchen, still looking at the knife block.

And then he looked away, just like she’d hoped he would.

She darted forward, half leaping towards Moran in the hope that she would reach him before he realised what she was doing.

He spun back round to face her just as she slammed the paperweight into his head.

All she’d really planned to do was disorient him enough for her to get away, or perhaps even knock him out for a while.

It was a simply luck (good or bad, she couldn’t quite decide) that Moran hit his head against her granite topped breakfast bar as he fell.

She checked. She was shaking from the shock but she checked to see if he was breathing, if he had a pulse, if his chest was moving at all.

And when she had ascertained that Sebastian Moran was certainly dead, Molly pushed his gun and the paperweight as far away as possible, sank down to the floor next to the settee, and tried not to work herself up into a full breakdown.

* * *

It could have been hours, days, weeks …

In actual fact, it was only ten minutes before the door banged open and Sherlock, John and Greg rushed in, followed more leisurely by Mycroft.

Molly looked up at them from her position slumped against the side of the settee. Her hands were still covered in blood from where she had checked Moran’s fatal head wound, and she couldn’t stop trembling.

She refused to look at Moran’s body.

Greg muttered something about checking the other rooms. He and Mycroft went off in the direction of the bedroom, while John eyed her with concern.

Sherlock watched her with wild eyes for a moment, before he knelt down in front of her, his expression guilty and tense, but also incredibly relieved.

He stretched his hands out and then paused, as if he was afraid to touch her. Then, slowly, he reached around and hugged her gently.

The dam broke and Molly started sobbing.

Sherlock pulled back, looking to John with a confused, almost scared expression. For a brief moment Molly wanted to laugh – Sherlock Holmes, undone by some tears.

“Shall we, ah, maybe, sit down?” Sherlock asked.

Molly allowed herself to be tugged up and sat down on the settee. John headed towards the kitchen, saying something about making tea, and Sherlock sat down next to her.

Molly looked around and realised who was missing, “where’s Mary?”

“With Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock explained, “we weren’t completely sure where Moran would have gone first, so Mary and Anthea went to look after her.”

Molly nodded, her mind still on Moran.

“Will you …” Sherlock hesitated for a moment, “will you tell me what happened?”

She did. In halted, half-stuttering sentences, with a cup of hot tea pressed into her hands by John. It wasn’t fun by any stretch of the imagination to rehash things, but when she was done she felt a little calmer.

When she got to the part about using the paperweight as a weapon, she thought she detected a hint of fierce pride on Sherlock’s face, though he turned serious again soon enough.

She emphasised that she didn’t mean to kill Moran, only to incapacitate him. She knew the law would understand her actions (if it even went to trial, which she thought unlikely considering Mycroft’s involvement) but she didn’t like the idea of being responsible for someone’s death, even when it was someone like Moran, who was trying to kill her.

Sherlock, thankfully, seemed to sense her feelings, and showed far more tact that she would usually expect from him. He refused to let Mycroft interrogate her (“use your brain, Mycroft, it’s obvious what happened. You can harass her tomorrow after she’s rested”), distracted her when Mycroft’s people removed the bodies of Moran and the two security officers, and then cleared her home of everyone except the two of them (he was semi-polite with John and Greg, downright and gleefully rude with Mycroft).

“You should rest,” he announced then, before rattling off a number of different facts about the healing and calming benefits of sleep at top speed.

She nodded, because it really did sound like a very good idea considering the day she’d had.

Sherlock followed her into her bedroom, hovering as she considered changing and decided she couldn’t be bothered. He seemed to vibrate with some kind of nervous energy – she couldn’t be sure exactly what he was feeling but she thought he was worried about her.

He looked less cool and collected than usual. She could tell he was tired, worn down by the problems of Magnussen and Moran so close together.

“Will you stay with me?” Molly whispered as she lay down on her bed and Sherlock watched, unsure, from the doorway.

Normally she wouldn’t dare to ask, sure that he would refuse in an unintentionally cutting manner, but she thought it might be different now.

He nodded almost immediately, pulling off his shoes and coat and climbing on top of the covers to lie down next to her.

For a while neither of them said anything. It was peaceful, restful.

Then Sherlock shifted slightly. His fingers traced her face gently, as if he had to be sure she was real, that she was still there.

It felt intimate and yet she didn’t blush or stammer like she thought she would. It seemed right, somehow, in a way few things were.

They stayed like that for hours, just lying there, no words needed. They didn’t sleep, but Molly felt all the tension of the past few days drain out of her slowly.

And then, finally, Sherlock spoke.

“I love you.”

His words were so soft that, even in the quiet of her bedroom, she almost didn’t hear them.

Once she would have thought it was a joke, or something said casually in order to get her to grant him a favour, or as some sort of twisted social experiment.

She knew better now.

Sherlock was often cruel, but he didn’t generally mean to be. Sometimes he even thought he was only helping.

He could be infuriating and obnoxious, but he was also caring and loyal, in his own way. He’d been called cold, unfeeling, a machine, but he wasn’t, not at all.

He was different, it was true. That didn’t matter to her, though. She loved him as he was.

One of her hands reached for his. It felt nice. She thought she could quite happily go through the rest of her life holding onto his hand.

“I love you too, Sherlock,” she replied.

A lot had happened recently, and there were many things they really needed to talk about in the coming days.

Still, Molly was sure of one thing.

The two of them would be ok.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
